


It takes a Muscle

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s08e22 Clip Show, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8.22 coda (sort of). Leaving and coming back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It takes a Muscle

 He turns over. He hums to himself; one hand curled in the thin motel bedspread, the other groping for the body beside him.

“You wanna go for breakfast, maybe?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up empty. He turns his head to one side; the bed is empty. The  _room_  is empty. He’s alone.

That’s the first time.

—-

Castiel acts like nothing happened; but, to be fair on him, so does Dean.

It’s only after, long after, that they talk about it; and by that point, Dean has cooled down a little.

“You left.” He says quietly to the silence in the car. Castiel looks at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s –“ he shakes his head. There’s bigger things on the horizon than this, now. He can admit that. “It’s okay, Cas.” He looks back at him. “No hard feelings.” And Castiel looks reassured.

—-

After that it just seems stupid  _not_ to end up scrambling for purchase in the back seat, his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window,  _terrified_ someone will see them; Dean with his eyes squeezed shut, hands slipping on the leather, his cock in Cas’ mouth.

Cas goes down on him and it’s  _ferocious,_ it’s damned near everything Dean has ever fucking wanted, Cas’ dark head between his legs making fucking filthy noises as he just _takes_  him.  Sucking hard almost all the way to the base; pulling off  _just_ when Dean is treading the edge, fucking  _inches_ from coming down Cas’ throat, and pulling Dean down to kiss him, bending his back awkwardly against the car roof; pressing them line-to-line, close enough to rub himself off against Dean’s hip; to let Dean push him against the seat and fuck his spitslick cock into the crease between his legs until he comes with a shout, and Cas follows not long after.

—-

He stays, then; they end up snoozing in the back of the car, helpless against the pull of sleep, tangled with each other. Cas leaves later in the day; but not without kissing Dean soft on his forehead, Dean perplexed - and strangely  _touched_  - by the gesture.

Later, Dean wonders if Cas only stayed because he couldn’t pull Dean off him; but it’s too depressing a line of thought to pursue.

—-

They keep a rhythm, of sorts, after that; meet when there’s time, Cas making Dean laugh when he just  _shows up_ while Dean is in the fucking shower, demanding that Dean fuck him against the tiles (or vice/versa). He can’t help it; Castiel isn’t only this strange, fussy, squinty little ball of fury; he’s affectionate when he tries to be, and sometimes Dean thinks there’s a lot more to them than just two warm bodies, the convenience of the apocalypse.

Something curls up inside him when he lies with Castiel one rare, free morning; the motel window open; the sheets mussed, rumpled beneath them. Castiel’s hand on his stomach; everything bleached white.

Castiel kissed the base of his spine for no reason at all; no precursor to something else, no gripping hand coming after; just a soft, hesitant press of lips to his skin. His muttered name.

It was a honeymoon, of sorts; exploring each other, learning each other’s cues. He starts recognising when Castiel is joking and when he’s just confused; he realises that Castiel is actually a lot fucking funnier than he lets on; you just have to  _learn him._ Like, Dean supposes, people often have to learn  _him._

It’s five blissful, golden,  _glorious_ weeks until the apocalypse. Most of his life fucking  _sucks –_ but Cas isn’t part of it.

—-

The night before Stull, Castiel starts trying to say goodbye; crowds up in Dean’s space, claustrophobic; mutters against the skin of his stomach, trails his hands over every inch of him, as if Dean has died, is in the throes of death, and Castiel is sending him on.

He grabs his hand to stop him – “What the fuck are you doing?” – and Castiel doesn’t answer, just looks pained, kisses him; doesn’t stop kissing him until morning breaches the horizon. Until it’s time to go.

He stays, but Dean doesn’t wake up holding him; instead he wakes to Castiel’s bent, naked back, sat on the edge of the bed. His head, cradled in his hands.

Dean leans over to him – to touch his shoulder, try and bring him some relief – but he can’t; somehow he’s not big enough, not strong enough, to stem whatever is in Castiel in that moment.

Instead he sits up in bed, hugging his knees, naked. When Sam calls to them, they dress. They leave.

—-

He supposes that they both think they’re choosing peace, in the end.

Funny thing is that neither of them are really choosing anything at all.

—-

“Where were you?” It’s not the first time he’s asked.

In weeks they haven’t touched; Lisa weighs on Dean’s mind, Sam is fucking  _weird._ Cas seems to be the only constant, and even he avoids Dean’s gaze like he’s fucking hiding something. Everybody fucking is.

“I – at war.” He says quietly, and Dean touches his shoulder.

“Are you –“

“Dean.”

There’s not much talking, after that.

Dean wakes in the morning, bruised; scratch-marks drawn parallel to his spine. An ache in his neck he can’t stretch out. There’s no one with him.

—-

Sometimes it’s like it used to be, almost; Cas kissing him in the back of the car, Dean going down on him in an alleyway, just because they’ve snatched the moment and he’s not going to fucking waste it; but Cas leaves immediately after, every time, and Dean didn’t even miss the sex, not really.

He missed  _Cas._

He doesn’t know how to put it into words.

—-

Watching him walk into the lake is the crux of what feels like the shittiest year of his life.

He never talks about it to anyone; how it breaks his heart.

He remembers, once, someone telling him that grief was heartbreak, plain and simple; as pure as losing love, you lose a person.

—-

In the year that follows, they never really touch again.

Sure, they  _touch;_ Castiel hugs him and his brother in the hospital, he’ll put his hand on Dean’s arm, in the brief instant before Dean flinches away.

They look at each other; revolve around each other, a strange, slow waltz; Castiel, not comprehending, or comprehending all too well; Dean never knows if Cas chose insanity, if it was just easier than knowing what the fuck you were doing all the time.

—-

Benny asks about him; Dean doesn’t tell him a lot, at first.

_He’s my friend._

Then,  _he saved me._

Then,  _he’s a fucking asshole sometimes._

Benny laughs. He says it sounds just like love.

—-

He thinks it’s fucking laughable, seeing Cas fucking everywhere. Doesn’t have the words to tell Sam it feels ironic, because only now that Cas is gone for good, he fucking sees him all the fucking time.

He doesn’t even really believe it’s true, when Cas appears in the bathroom; when Dean grabs his lapels and pulls him as close as possible and breathes in the  _stink_ of him, blood and rot and the flesh of trees. He’s had this dream before. He’s had it more than once.

But Cas is flesh, as far as he can tell, and Sam can see him too.

In the weeks that follow, they don’t rebuild; Dean stays in his orbit, but never ventures closer. He’s wary, understandably so; Cas always,  _always_ pulls him in too hard.

Eventually, it’s Castiel who climbs across to him; who comes to him when Sam is gone, and kisses his throat, and says  _I’m so sorry,_ but Dean doesn’t think even Cas knows what he’s apologising for. Neither of them really do; there’s so many things to choose from.

He pushes him away.

—-

The fucking mess that they are before Castiel appears in the middle of the fucking road doesn’t really bear explanation; Dean wishes he would go for good, and at once wishes he would come back. He prays, out of habit; filthy, nasty prayers, desperate, pathetic ones;  _I need you, Fuck you, I need you, Fuck;_ and there’s no answer. Not even when he pleads.

He hefts Cas into the car.

He puts him into his bed, his own fucking bed, when they get inside.

He pushes the hair back from Castiel’s forehead with a shaking hand, and loves him. And hates it.

He holds Castiel’s hand in his until the morning; he doesn’t sleep.

He feels stupid every fucking time. Stupid like his Dad was, believing revenge would help; stupid like Sam was, believing two wrongs could ever make a right; stupid like he’s always been, clinging to whatever will take him; attaching himself to the things that love him worst.

Castiel opens his eyes, and he smiles. Grateful. Earnest.

He squeezes Dean’s hand in his own. “You’re always here.” He says, and Dean’s heart plummets into his fucking boots.  

He stays, until the morning. It’s all he can really bear.

He thinks of all the mornings he woke up alone; of how they weren’t that bad, really, for the first few seconds, because it’s like he can’t fucking learn; like Pavlov would be fucking stumped by him, Dean fucking Winchester, insane to the very  _definition_ of it.

Because in those first few seconds he’d always wake up, sun-warm, smiling. Aching beautifully, new like he was when he crawled out of his grave; new like he was when Castiel raised him up.

He always believed he’d be there. Always given him the benefit of the doubt, against all fucking logic and fucking reason.

If only because there was always the chance, before Cas left again, that he’d  _stay._


End file.
